Underwater Basket Weaving

You and I are the self-abusive type. The kind that likes to sit in the cold summer rain while clutching old newspapers, thinking about missing pieces and broken keys. In the morning, we'd skip breakfast and drown ourselves in work, trying to ignore the deep aching hunger in the hollow space behind our ribs. In the evening, there are only endless cups of tea. 

It's Friday night and the bass from the party downstairs is making the pencils on my desk tremble. Or maybe that's from the nervous jiggling of my leg, knocking steadily against the desk. I'm clutching my camera like a lifeline and even that doesn't feel like enough.